Poets on the Run

In the mirage were shadows of silhouettes

Spinning, turning, doing pirouettes

Enter the fear of perpetual temptation

Begin to pray for a quick adaptation

The mirage was a mask of frozen sweat

Accreted over the years, with no regret

To pocket the ball is all I sought

Memorize a new three-cushion bank shot

Cautiously sensing the taste of a last breath

But waiting to live up to the standards of death

She is the wind with a carnival in her purse

I am hitchhiker summoning a hearse

I have washed out the stains of fear and ridicule

Still, the possibility of hope is so minuscule

Is it that time again? I’ll check my birth certificate

Yep. Grab another tangent to the insignificant

Published by Kumi

Liaison to the Infinite.

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